Okay, Iwaswatching him. So what?
“Aren’t you on shift?” I blurt.
I swear, he’s smoldering. His blue gaze is intense. He’s not smiling. Just incinerating my panties from a foot away with one hot look.
“No.”
“Oh.” I’m more confused than before. “Okay.”
He reaches for the chair nearest me, and I take note of the tattoos on his sexy hands. “Have a seat.”
A bit high-handed, but I guess I’m having dinner with a hot bartender. Things could be worse, considering the luck I’ve had recently.
“Thanks.” I sit, feeling wary.
I don’t need him to pull out a chair for me. Or have dinner with me. The last thing I want or need is an island hookup when I have my bestie’s wedding to worry about. But I’m not mad that he’s wrangled this table for me. Not mad he’s apparently joining me either.
He moves around the table, and I catch a hint of his cologne on the night’s sea-tinged air. He sits in the chair opposite me, still exuding that raw, magnetic energy that makes me feel things I shouldn’t. He’s so alarmingly, aggressively beautiful and alive. It feels a bit dangerous, like I’m sticking my hand into the enclosure of a beast of prey at the zoo.
Alessio slides a menu in my direction. “If we’re going to have dinner together, I should probably know your name.”
“Isla.” I take the menu and slant a meaningful look in his direction. “So, is this something you do often?”
“Have dinner with a beautiful woman?”
My ovaries flutter. But this is a standard fuckboy tactic—flattery. I may be a little tipsy and a whole lot rusty at the dating game, but I’m not falling for it.
“Ha.” I start perusing the entrées. “I was referring to inviting yourself to dinner with a stranger, actually.”
“Ouch.” He presses a tatted hand over his heart. “Inviting myself? That one hurt.”
I raise a brow. “I did say a private table with a menu, not a private tablefor two.”
He’s totally unaffected by my dig. “I’m good at reading between the lines.”
He hasn’t even picked up his menu. He’s just watching me with that intense azure stare like the only thing he wants for dinner is me.
My pulse kicks up. “Is that so?”
We’re flirting. I think. It feels surprisingly good. I’m not even sure I know how to do whatever it is I’m currently doing with Alessio after spending most of my adult years in a committed relationship with one man.
I was with Christian for over five years. It hits me now, the full weight of what I gave him, what I lost. Almost all my undergrad years, the time everyone else spends dating, flirting at parties, and hooking up. Then postgrad years too. Stupid, wasted years of loyalty and faithfulness for a man who threw it away.
“Yeah. That’s so. It’s one of my many talents.”
I decide on the gnocchi and spare him another glance, keeping the menu up like it’s a shield. “So, what are they? Your talents, I mean.”
Before he can answer me, a server arrives at our table, ready to take our drink orders. I stick with water. Alessio does the same and then asks me if I like margherita pizza.
“I do.”
He nods at the server. “We’ll have the margherita pizza to start.”
The server takes the rest of our order. I get the gnocchi because I’m starving, and Alessio goes for the filet mignon. She promises to return soon before leaving us alone again.
“You won’t be disappointed by this margherita pizza,” he tells me. “The burrata is fresh, and so are the tomatoes and basil. It’s an experience. Just trust me.”
I’m not big on trust these days. In fact, my trusting anyone with a dick is probably not going to happen any time this century. But since we’re talking food, I don’t offer an objection.
